The Last Lever
by openlyderivative
Summary: Clarke Griffin's last scene


**The Last Lever**

The heat is like a wall, she can barely push her way forward through it. The air she breathes burns inside her. There is a terrible, chemical smell - ancient plastic softening, hot metal, dust about to burst into flame. Clarke has to force herself not to turn and run, but she knows that death lies in both directions; either way, she'll burn.

The broken Flame that she still wears is hot on her breastbone. It feels as though the sharp edged weal where Octavia had sliced at it, denying them all the wisdom of Becca just when they had most needed her guidance, is scorching a track into her skin. She concentrates on this small pain, pushes the memory of Octavia from her mind, and forces one foot in front of the other.

"Don't be afraid." It is as though she hears the voice, soft and certain, whispering through the ruins of the turbine hall – she finds herself stopping to sweep its corners, as if it were possible that somehow she was here. But she sees nothing but shadows, and nothing moving but the air, the heat making it almost visible. Her heart contracts, the memory of Lexa's hand clasping hers over the bullet wound, her eyes steady and fixed on Clarke, drives the same sob from her throat as ever. But there is no time for this – there was never any time for anything. She mutters the words to herself: "Don't be afraid" and pushes on.

The metal gangway is searing underfoot, blasting through the leather soles of her boots. She moves as quickly as she can towards the dark doorway at its end. Left, then right. She runs through Bellamy's directions again. She left him at the gate, leaning on an improvised crutch, his eyes like bruises in the low light, sunken with sorrow. She caught the glint of a tear falling as she had turned away. "Keep them safe" she had called behind her, not looking back. "I will" he had replied, his voice thick. And she knows that he will, this time.

The corridor is narrow, and pitch black, and funnels unendurable heat. She blinks, but her eyes are dry. The pressure builds with the temperature – she wonders how much longer she has. Five minutes? Seven? "If you don't get there on time." Even through the radio static, the panic in Raven's voice had been evident. "We can do it" Bellamy had replied, but that was before Indra had loomed out of the darkness wielding Octavia's sword. Now Clarke is on her own, racing into the heart of the plant, and everything depends on her finding her way.

But she is glad to be alone. Echo will find Bellamy, and bring him home, and he will live. It never made sense for them to do this together – it occurs to her that Indra had saved him. The irony. But the spray of Indra's blood darkening her sleeve stops the twisted smile that this thought starts. She feels tears threaten, blinks, charges on.

She must be nearly there. The darkness is developing a red tinge, and the heat on her skin is becoming unbearable. The air scalds her lungs. She knows that she can't survive for much longer, the reddening blackness of her environment is matched by a gathering pressure in her head. But it can't be far, she thinks she sees the door ahead. At least this time, it is only an action; the time for decision has long passed. Another moment, and now she is starting to slow down, the sound of her breath loud, each exhalation a whimper of anticipation of the searing inhalation that will follow. She staggers, drags herself along, one shoulder against the wall. As she reaches the entrance to the control room, a body hurls itself out of the darkness, knocking her to the floor and pins her there. She scrabbles desperately against the weight. Dark hair falls over her eyes, and she is blinded. Rough hands scrabble at her upper arms; Clarke forces up her right hand and scores across the face that the hair conceals. The woman yelps. Clarke thinks her voice is familiar somehow, but her attention is all on her gun, trapped underneath her. She lashes her right hand across the woman's face again, desperately trying to force her other hand, against the other's strong grip, underneath her hip to drag the weapon out. She feels, suddenly, a sharp pain in her side and her breath comes out as a scream; the Grounder has a knife. She yanks her hand down to meet it, and can feel the blade slice her palm as she works to deflect it, slippery fingers grabbing at the woman's wrist. The gun finally comes loose, but the Grounder feels this too and a strong hand circles her own. Why, Clarke wonders, did she not have Lexa teach her how to fight?

No time, for that or anything else.

She forces the gun up against the pressure of the Grounder's grip, feeling certain that if she does not manage this now, she never will, and knowing that everybody's hope would die with her in this burning corridor if she fails. The thought summons a strength she didn't know she had, and she angles the gun. Praying that her aim is good enough, she squeezes the trigger, once, then adjusting the angle tighter towards herself, again. The Grounder woman makes a small harsh noise, and her weight falls full against Clarke, who collapses back onto the broiling floor underneath her. But she cannot stop, even though it is through force of sheer will alone that she pushes the woman's body aside. Her hair falls away from her face, and Clarke sees that it is Niylah, her features slackening in death. Clarke thinks of the pain radiating from her narrowed eyes when she left her at the trading post that day. Small wonder she had joined Jaha's Doomers, she thinks; what life did she have left in the wake of Clarke's, of Skaikru's carelessness? "Yu gonplei ste odon" she mutters, brushing Niylah's eyes closed, but the words ring hollow. She presses her mouth closed, swallowing a howl for all of them, Niylah and Octavia, Indra and Jasper, for whom peace could not ever be found. There is no time. She forces herself back to her feet, the pain in her chest now more than just the scalding of hot air. Her eyes sting.

Blood is running from the wound in her side; the waistband of her pants is already soaked. She presses her hand against it and staggers slightly, then slides around the doorframe into the control room. There is no Lexa in this reality, to bear her weight.

The control room is large, the distance across it to the panel she needs looms. She can barely stand. Lights blink, LEDS defying the passage of time, but now degrading in the absence of the Keepers. Dark screens, like little voids, line the walls. She stumbles forward. Half way across, she falls. She can see dark splashes underneath her as she drags herself up: Niylah may have fore-sworn her past, but she had retained her knife skills. Clarke knows she is bleeding too heavily to stay conscious for long. "Come on" she urges herself. Her voice is thick and ragged, cracking out of a parched mouth. She steps forward, sinks onto one knee, hauls herself up again. "You were born for this." She would laugh, if she could summon a sound. She can see it now, the last lever, just beyond her reach. She falls again, face forward onto the hot floor. It is agonising against her cheek; she pushes weakly upwards, collapses down. "Where's that stubborn streak I remember?" The gravelly voice in her head is like her father's. She pushes upwards again, dragging herself to her knees. "Hurry" she growls at herself. "Hurry." She is back on her feet. Two steps. She wavers. She is shaking now, the blood loss taking its toll. One more step. She crashes forward, her chest thumping heavily into the control panel. Her hands, she sees, are covered in blood - Niylah's, Indra's, her own. Shaking, she reaches out. But there are two levers on this panel.

If the radio had not fallen into the water. She drops her head closer, trying to decipher in the dim light a faded script stamped onto the metal of the control panel a century ago. She thinks she can make out the sign of a lock by the lever on the right, but it is hard to say for sure. She wonders what would happen if she pulled them both. And she knows she must be nearly out of time.

She is going to have to guess - to save the world or damn it, on a hunch. She reaches out and shuts her eyes.

And feels, suddenly, the soft pressure of a hand laid over hers. She opens her eyes. There is no-one. Shuts them again, and feels, more surely, the curve of fingers covering her own, and against her back now, the press of her body, and warm breath on the back of her neck. "Clarke." Lexa's voice, Clarke's name in her mouth expressed always as though it were a wish. "You _were_ born for this." She can hear the smile in the Commander's voice. She allows her hand to be guided, fixing on the memory of Lexa's slender hands. She keeps her eyes closed, feels the hot metal of the lever against her outstretched palm. "This one?" she asks, and she feels Lexa's answering nod. She curls her hand around it, biting her lip against the heat, trying to concentrate on the comforting weight of Lexa's fingers against her own. And she pulls with all the strength she has left. The lever is stiff, as though it had not been touched for a century, it makes a grinding noise as it moves. And then she is standing there in the dark and the heat with her eyes closed, wrapped in Lexa's memory as though she were real, waiting for something to happen. The heat seems to be roaring now, and she feels herself starting to slip. There is nothing more she can do, so she allows herself to sink.

Outside, she hopes, a deluge is moving towards her, to wash away all this terror, the burning past, to cleanse their earth. She hopes Raven's algorithm will write a safe future when this last great threat has passed. She hopes that her last lever was the right one.

The heat roars in her ears. Now, distinctly, there's the smell of chemicals burning. She leans back against the control unit. She feels as though Lexa is present, and she is grateful, even though it's probably an hallucination. She holds her eyes shut, afraid to open them to an empty room. "Lexa" she breathes. "I'm here." Lexa's voice is soft, and Clarke feels the Commander's fingers, once again, rest lightly on her own. "Will it be alright?" she murmurs. "Will they survive?"

"Yes." Lexa's voice is certain. Clarke keeps her eyes shut, but sees her in her mind, her hair loose and pulled to one side as it had been on that last day, smiling, her eyes warm, her gaze steady. "They will do more than survive. They will live." Lexa's hand curves around hers, lifts it up. Clarke can hear the heat begin to crackle around her, and her lungs are tight and painful. "Do you remember, Clarke, when you hoped for a day when we would owe them nothing more?" She thinks of Lexa's smile deepening, and everything but that hope seems to drop away. In the gathering darkness, she feels Lexa lean forward, and then the curve of her smile, still, on her lips as they meet her own. This time, there are no tears.


End file.
